


Hearts Shatter in Silence

by buttcatcher



Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, roach is the real mvp, she loves her people so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: Transforming should have felt relieving. Freeing even, for Jaskier had forced himself to stay trapped in his human form for far too long. Hadn’t bathed in his own fire for centuries, nor amassed and protected a hoard like his kind so often tended to do.Instead, he had placed his love and care into the one person who ever mattered to him, and had it thrown back in his face.Assuming the form of his real self should have been a weight lifted off his shoulders, but as he scrambles to get his clothes back on from where he had hidden them in a hollow divot in a tree at the opposite end of the forest, all he can feel is pain.Agony. Soul searing agony in his chest, and a whole lifetime’s worth of fury.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499
Comments: 59
Kudos: 1205





	Hearts Shatter in Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think of this! I wasn't too happy with how this one turned out, but I had to write it to get to where I want the story to go.

Transforming should have felt relieving. Freeing even, for Jaskier had forced himself to stay trapped in his human form for far too long. Hadn’t bathed in his own fire for centuries, nor amassed and protected a hoard like his kind so often tended to do.

Instead, he had placed his love and care into the one person who ever mattered to him, and had it thrown back in his face. 

Assuming the form of his real self should have been a weight lifted off his shoulders, but as he scrambles to get his clothes back on from where he had hidden them in a hollow divot in a tree at the opposite end of the forest, all he can feel is pain.

Agony. Soul searing agony in his chest, and a whole lifetime’s worth of fury.

How could Geralt have let himself be tracked? This was so out of the way for Nilfgaard; there was no way they happened upon the famous witcher by _accident_ when their conquests lay in the opposite direction! For all the times he reminded Jaskier just how useless he thought the bard was, to stay behind and not be a distraction so Geralt could focus his senses on the incoming fight, the mighty witcher allowed himself to be tracked by a herd of monsters wearing armor.

“Moronic, reckless, self-sacrificing son of a-” Jaskier snarls to himself as he fumbles into his crimson doublet with shaking limbs, hurriedly dressing before carefully extracting his lute from the tree with a gentleness he wouldn’t have been able to show anyone or anything after what he had just done.

Gods, what had he _done?_

Geralt had demanded to be left alone and yet here Jaskier was, swooping in to save the man who tossed him aside like twenty years meant nothing to chase after a sorceress who barely gave him the time of day.

A sorceress whose history Jaskier is aware of and felt sympathy for, but the way she chose to be so ruthless with the emotions of the man he would burn cities for all but erased any empathy he had regarding the witch.

Perhaps it was the centuries he spent as a bard, repressing the righteous anger that came so fiercely to his kind, that had him thinking this way. Realistically, Jaskier knows that if Yennefer would take the time to acknowledge him and give Geralt the respect he deserves, whether it takes years or centuries, Jaskier feels they could have been friends. 

Granted, the passing of years didn’t mean much to beings like the three of them, but Jaskier had spent enough time around humanity to know twenty years was a good chunk of a mortal man’s life. Geralt and his witch lover were undoubtedly under the impression that Jaskier is mortal; that he could either die from a monster bite or old age, and yet in these two years they hadn’t run into each other, Geralt never once sought out Jaskier to apologize.

After so long with nothing, this was all suddenly too much.

 _”Fuck,”_ Jaskier whispers brokenly as he allows himself to let loose the angry tears that had been threatening to flow ever since he saw the lone figure of the White Wolf facing down a sea of black and gold.

That stupid, selfless _idiot._

Had Jaskier not been there, had that little boy not run into that village to warn the inhabitants, the witcher would have perished on that field and Jaskier never would have known.

Never would have known whether his bones had been laid to rest or if they were festering in a monster’s gullet. 

Fuck, he can’t do this. Smoke and soot cling to his skin as he rights himself the best he can and resolves to take off in the opposite direction of the field as fast as his feet could carry him. After years of not seeing his beloved, of telling himself he was better off alone, old wounds resurfaced and felt as though someone was grinding salt into them. 

Because, even in all of Jaskier’s hopeless fantasies of the man coming to find him and apologizing in a way he knew the witcher never had to do before, he never imagined Geralt would look as beaten down and miserable as he had in that field. 

There had been a certain aura around the white haired man in the field that screamed of pain, of longing, of _heartbreak_ in a way Jaskier had never seen before, not even when Yennefer left him without a word on top of that mountain. It wasn’t the man Jaskier knew, but then again, does he really know the person the witcher was now?

Had he ever really known Geralt?

 _Yes,_ his traitorous mind hissed at him, _you know him and you love him._

Adrenaline slowly fades from his body as a bone deep exhaustion takes over. Spitting fire was easy as breathing for a dragon, but the amount of strain it put on his body after stifling his flames for so long was more than expected. 

Each step causes his limbs to throb as he marches his way through the foliage and away from the area where he had landed before shifting back, the few broken trees and kicked up patches of earth the only indication something had made an emergency landing. It was better to be safe than sorry after all; who knew if Nilfgaard had other troops circling in from the back? He wouldn't put it past them to go the whole nine yards just to take down a tiny village, and while he had been sure to leave not a single soul behind on that battlefield, there was no telling what Nilfgaard had up their sleeve.

So lost in his thoughts was he that the increasingly loud sound of hoofbeats advancing toward him only registered when the smell of horse became apparent, and by that point, it was too late to pretend he wasn’t there. 

Deft hands swung the lute from his back and held it carefully like one would a bat, fingers tight around the neck of the instrument in case he had to use it for self defense. 

“Who’s there?” Jaskier calls out in a scratchy voice, throat still not used to the after effects of the amount of fire that had blasted its way through him earlier. 

Silence meets his question for a few seconds before a very familiar horse and unfamiliar rider came crashing through the underbrush, a terrified and pale little girl holding onto the reins for dear life as the animal comes to a complete stop in front of the bard, her large chest heaving for breath after what must have been a dead sprint. 

Shock loosens Jaskier’s grip on his lute, and had the case not been strapped to his chest, he was sure he would have dropped her. _”Roach?_ He manages to choke out as the horse in question snuffles her soft nose at his neck before huffing and tossing her head back, the whites of her eyes visible in her distress. 

The eyes of the little girl astride Roach are much the same, her gaze wide and openly shocked as she looks at him for a few moments before opening her mouth. 

“Please, can you help me?” 

Jaskier is pulled from his surprise by a panicked question squeaked out of a child who looks no more than twelve years of age, her face pale as a ghost and wide green eyes haunted enough to lend credence to the fact that whoever was riding Roach right now certainly knew who he was.

But Geralt didn’t let _anyone_ ride Roach. She was untouchable; sure, she had carried him when Geralt thought he was about to die that one time with the djinn, but he hadn’t been happy about it. And yet this girl rode astride Geralt’s most prized companion like she had every right to be there, and before he could stop himself, Jaskier let his mouth hang open in shock. 

“As someone who is justifiably a little wary of who knows me these days, what with the war going on, may I inquire as to who you are and how you got that horse before I reply?” 

The girl seemed to not appreciate his beating around the bush, for she straightens her back and levels him with a look no child her age should be capable of. “Please, my- my friend, he needs help! We were heading to Northwest Kaedwen but the army is gonna get him and he can’t fight by himself but he told me to run and find-” Roach stomps her hooves at the urgency in her rider’s tone, and _that_ is what propels Jaskier into action. 

“Alright, alright, yes, I’m Jaskier.” He cuts her off before she can devolve into a full blown panic attack. “Where is your friend?” 

Relief washes over her face like nothing Jaskier has seen before on someone her age. “He’s at the edge of the wood; Nilfgaard is advancing toward the village and he told me to run and find someone named Jaskier.” 

And all of a sudden, his world implodes on him for the third time that day. 

A child of no more than twelve years of age, an achingly familiar horse, and the desperation of someone who was about to lose someone they held dear all hit Jaskier like a brick to the face. 

For a moment, Jaskier feels rage. Fury boils him alive from the inside as he silently curses Destiny for the shit hand she’s dealt to him. 

Of course he would run into Geralt’s Child Surprise right after saving his arse despite the vitriol the witcher had screamed at him all those years ago. _Of course_ this would happen right when he finally thought he could move on, could stop seeing Geralt in every face at every tavern he stumbled into. 

Right when he finally came to terms with losing the one hoard he had ever bothered to love. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier carefully keeps his tone neutral, though with the look Ciri is giving him, he knows he’s not doing a very good job, and neither is she if the appalled look on her face is anything to go by. “Is a right arsehole. But I promise you, he is alive and looking for you. I caught the smell of fire earlier and I have it on good authority the soldiers went up in flames.” 

Doubt is swimming in Cirilla’s eyes, but that’s the best answer Jaskier can give her without divulging too much. After all, she was bound to Geralt and was going to find him again; best not give the man more reasons to hate him. 

“So you _are_ Jaskier,” Cirilla concludes as she dismounts Roach and lands on her feet with a small huff. “How do you know Geralt is alright? How do you-” 

"Forgive me, my lady, but I am in no mood to answer questions.” Jaskier politely interrupts what he knows is most likely going to be a waterfall of never ending questions he can’t bear to answer. “You will just have to trust me on this one. The White Wolf never leaves behind the ones he holds dear; he will find you.” 

Large green eyes framed by pale lashes quickly blink away tears as the girl forces herself to stand ramrod straight, an air of confidence about her that admittedly takes Jaskier a bit by surprise. “I’m Cirilla. But for the sake of safety, please call me Fiona.” 

Confusion briefly wars with exasperation as Jaskier heaves a sigh and holds his hand out for Roach to snuffle and nip at. “Really, princess, you shouldn’t go around giving people your true name.” 

“Geralt said I can trust you.” 

And well, isn’t that just a kick in the stomach? 

“Oh?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows at the princess as she hurriedly glances between him and the direction she came from, clearly not ready to take him at his word that Geralt was safe until she saw him unharmed. 

Sharp forest green eyes focus back on him as Cirilla licks her dry lips a moment before nodding. “He gave me a message to give you if he didn’t make it.” 

Despite himself, Jaskier feels his old heart beat just a tad faster at that. What could the witcher possibly have left to say to him? Everything he secretly thought for the entirety of their companionship had been bottled up before it overflowed two years ago, so Jaskier honestly couldn't comprehend what more there was to say. “With all due respect,” he begins, hands trembling with the intensity of emotions coursing through him at the possibility of the message not being one he wanted to hear, “I do not wish to hear his message unless it comes from the lips of the White Wolf himself.” 

Roach chooses that moment to ram her head into his chest with a short disgruntled sound, obviously done with the idle chit chat while her owner was no doubt trying to find them. It forces Jaskier back to reality. 

The reality that Geralt was no doubt tracking Cirilla down as they spoke. 

A cold sweat gathers on the back of his neck and under his arms as he offers the little girl a wobbly smile before gently carding his soot covered fingers through her equally dirty hair. Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he finds the words he needs. “I am glad you found me and I was able to meet you,” he begins as Cirilla stares at him in confusion, no doubt struggling to understand what was happening with the terrors she had more than likely bore witness to. “But I’m afraid I can’t be here when Geralt finds you. But worry not; there isn’t another human or monster in this forest that could cause you harm.” 

A small, dirt caked hand gently fists itself in the fabric of his trousers, right above his knee. “You’re not staying?” She whispers, and her voice causes what was left of Jaskier’s heart to break. 

Oh, she was such a lovely thing. 

“I’m sorry little one,” he murmurs as he forces himself to pull his hand away from her knotted locks, the urge to comb through the mess and clean her up barely contained, “But Geralt does not wish to see me, so I would be loathe to deny him the one thing he asked of me." 

Silence settles around them for a moment before a noise off in the distance causes Jaskier to whip around toward the sound, subtly scenting the air and catching the whine that tries to force its way out of his throat at the familiar smell. 

The scent of home, of adventure and destiny and _love._

Geralt is almost upon them. 

Pulling away from Cirilla and Roach is hard, but nothing is more difficult than having to tear himself away from the scent of the man he had considered his world before the witcher finds him and tears his heart apart further. 

He survived being ripped apart between the White Wolf’s jaws once, and he was absolutely positive he wouldn’t survive the experience a second time. 

“Please take care of him for me, Cirilla.” Jaskier hurriedly takes a step back before he folds to his instincts that were telling him not to leave the man he loves. 

“But Jaskier-” 

Jaskier quickly offers Ciri a small shake of his head, a fake smile plastered on his lips. “It’s alright, little one. I have lived a long life and will continue on. But should you need me, or if something happens to Geralt and you’re in trouble…” Long, elegant musicians fingers quickly rustle around in his trouser pockets before pulling out a neatly wound bundle of extra lute strings. Jaskier places them gingerly in small, thin hands, gently closing Cirilla’s fingers around the item he placed in her palms. “Call for me, and I will come.” 

Jaskier doesn’t give the child a chance to question him before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead and fleeing between the trees and away from the small clearing. 

_*_

Truthfully, it wasn’t Cirilla’s scent that Geralt was able to hone in on so much as it was the smell of sweat and horse. How he got to his ward was unimportant; the only thing that matters is that she is safe, and as Geralt crashes into the little clearing where the scent of Roach is strongest, another smell hits him like a slap to the face and his body suddenly feels the way it does when he has to travel through a portal, like the ground has been torn from under his feet and he’s in freefall. 

It’s not Lilac and Gooseberries; no, it’s the scent of _home._

All at once, Geralt knows Jaskier had been in the clearing where Cirilla is staring off into the woods in front of her with a look so heartbroken and confused that Geralt very nearly bowls her over in his haste to get to her. 

“Ciri,” Geralt breaths, crashing to his knees as he grabs the girl by the shoulders and turns her around, intending to look for wounds and ensure she wasn’t harmed in her escape, but when he catches her gaze, he feels his heart stop in his chest. 

She looks… not the way he had been expecting. 

Sure, he knows the princess is at the age where being shoved onto a horse and told to run doesn’t exactly sit well with her own sense of loyalty, but the pure, unbridled _sadness_ on her face is unexpected. 

_“Geralt,”_ Cirilla gasps around a sob, and suddenly the witcher has an armful of sobbing princess, her tiny hands scrambling over the ridges on the leather armor of his shoulders in search of a grip before she shoves her face into his chest and cries. 

It’s a heartbreaking sound, one Geralt had heard during night terrors more than once over their little time together, but he couldn't help himself from scenting the clearing over her shoulder even as he cups the back of her head and allows her to cry against him. 

“Ciri, what happened?" 

The sniffles being pressed against his neck and shoulder slow down gradually until the girl is able to find her voice. “I… I ran like you told me to, but I thought you wouldn’t.... That you would-” She dissolves into another round of little whimpers before she gets herself under control, leaning back into the hand Geralt gently cards through her hair in a soothing motion. “He said you were alright, but Geralt-” 

“‘He?’” Geralt echoes. 

Cirilla slowly disentangles herself from the large man, and despite how uncomfortable Geralt had been the first time she had hugged him, he finds himself missing the warmth. 

Still, something about the searching way Cirilla is looking at him rubs him the wrong way. She’s keeping something from him, and whether or not it has to do with the overwhelming smell of smoke and death permeating the area didn’t matter. 

A silence so charged that Geralt feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up as Cirilla stares at him unblinking for a moment before clenching her fist around something in her hand. “Geralt,” she begins, voice barely above a whisper but obviously confident he could hear her. “What have you _done?”_

Confusion and an emotion not unlike fear rock his body so strongly that Geralt almost has to brace a hand on the grass to steady himself. “What?” 

_“Jaskier.”_

The bard’s name should’t bring such a strong wave of yearning and regret crashing into his chest, but nevertheless, it does. It threatens to stab his ribcage and lodge itself into his heart as he stares open mouthed at his Child Surprise. “You… you found him?” Despite himself, despite knowing the bard would not want to see him, Geralt can’t help but quickly scan the clearing in hopes the man had decided to stick around. 

Whatever Jaskier had been doing in this forest, it didn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s alive, that Nilfgaard hadn’t gotten to him before they made it to the outskirts of this village. 

Cirilla worries her bottom lip as she rubs a little charred mark on her forehead, eyes lost in thought for a moment before raising her head to meet Geralt’s gaze once more. “His eyes.” Is all she says. 

Geralt has to admit he’s thrown for a loop. With all the stress of believing wholeheartedly that he had been about to die before a fucking _dragon_ swooped in out of nowhere and burned an entire army combined with allowing his Child Surprise out of sight and protection, he can’t help but bite back the impatient growl he could feel rising in his throat. 

Being impatient with the child would do nothing but leave him with more questions than answers. 

“What about them? Where did he go?" 

Suddenly, all the air leaves his lungs in one fell swoop as Cirilla pockets whatever had been in her hand and drops a bombshell on him. 

“His eyes looked just like yours.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry they're slowly coming closer and closer to reuniting face to face I promise


End file.
